


Wilt thou be gone?

by the_law_of_progress



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: M/M, ghost!David, memories of Ettersberg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:54:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23834188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_law_of_progress/pseuds/the_law_of_progress
Summary: On the anniversary of Ettersberg, Thomas is visited by a very familiar presence.
Relationships: David Mellenby/Thomas Nightingale
Comments: 6
Kudos: 22





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



When the heating at the Folly breaks, it is a cold night in late January. 

He’ll wake up in the night, sweat on his brow, heaving in breaths. His throat hurts, and the echoes of his screams hang in the air, lingering like _vestigia._

He can’t remember exactly what the nightmares were about, grasping at them only makes them fade faster. The cold January air bites at his lungs as he struggles to get enough air.

His limbs feel so, so heavy. He lays there, the vast, soft bed seemingly engulfing him in its embrace. It almost strangles him and he tries to move, tries to find the strength to move his legs, his arms, _anything_. Instead the covers seem to swallow him whole and he tries not to cry out as they seem to drown him.

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches the soft glow from his nightstand. There, a picture frame sits. It had been a Christmas gift from his apprentices one month before. The mahogany frame glows softly in the light of the string of lights glued around its edges. Faery lights, Abigail had cheerfully informed him they were called. 

He looks at the picture, one taken almost a century before. Its time-worn edges are carefully preserved in the glass covering. The smile of the man in the photo, dead nearly 70 years, glows brightly with the little lights. A need to reach out a hand, to caress that face, overtakes him, but he can’t find the strength to move his arm. “I’m sorry.” He breaths, barely more than an exhale. He draws in a few more deep breaths.   
He’s so tired. His eyelids fall closed, but his brain won’t let go of the feeling that there is something in the room, that he isn’t alone and he’s _frightened_ ; frightened in a way that only happens late at night, alone in the dark. He shivers, partially out of fear and partially out of cold.

Thoughts of other cold January nights play out in his mind: of snow falling through the trees of a wood somewhere outside Ettersburg that they ran through in the dark; of the abandoned shed, little more than a few slabs of wood with a door, that they took turns sleeping in; of the sounds of werewolves as he hid under a bridge in the arms of a goddess. Of returning to England and visiting graves with familiar names as the cold evening air seemed to suffocate him.

The presence in the room seems to get closer and he’s so tired. Exhaustion fights against fear, chipping away at his alertness, but it’s not enough, not yet. He’s still too wired to sleep, but too tired to move. 

A soft, familiar voice calls out to him, “Don’t be scared, I’m right here.”

It was a voice he had last heard at Ettersburg, a voice that belonged to a man he had shoved onto a glider, who’s glasses had been knocked off in the fight and was trying desperately to salvage some good from the horrors that he had been partially responsible for. It was the voice of the man with the glowing smile on his nightstand.

It was a voice he missed, with all his heart, but not one he fears.

Finally, as if a spell has been lifted, fear gives way to exhaustion, and he can feel himself calming down. Breathing becomes easier, lighter. A gentle hand presses against his shoulder, pulling at the covers just enough so they don’t seem to weigh on him as much. A moment later, he feels a gentle caress along his sweaty brow.

“It’s okay, I’m here. Go back to sleep.”

And, surprisingly, he does.


	2. night's candles are burnt out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is someone haunting the Folly, and Thomas struggles to find out what- rather, who- it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Coraine for the prompts! I wouldn't have written this without them. :)
> 
> Chapter title and quotations from Act III Scene V of Romeo and Juliet.

The temperature fluctuation in the Folly had worsened over the past month. Now, the early February cold was a constant companion to the Folly’s residents. 

A murder case under DI Stephanopoulos had Peter back in his room at the Folly for the next few days. Peter, unlike Thomas, had had no qualms about wearing numerous sweaters with hoods attached whilst dining.

After shivering through every meal three days in a row, an ancient mauve jumper- one that Thomas had thought was unrecoverable after an accident involving a spontaneous football game in the park some years before- had suddenly turned up on his bed. Unlike other clothes that returned from Molly’s mysterious clutches, this jumper had the fainted traces of dirt stains and a few obvious patch marks where he had torn it scoring a goal against Ballantine junior.

“Nice sweater, sir.” Peter said, a little muffled from underneath a hand knitted monstrosity Peter generously called a scarf. He stopped to turn the lights up, the dark morning light barely peaking through the curtains. 

The cold always seemed to discourage conversation, so they ate in silence. Thomas held his teacup close, letting its steam seep into lungs. He remembered another day in early February when he thought he would never be warm again.

A ruffle of the breakfast room windows had Molly hissing like a cat. From the breakfast table, Thomas and Peter turned, but there was nothing there. “Sir?” Peter asked hesitantly. 

Thomas frowned. “I’m sure it’s nothing, Peter.” He said but didn’t sound convinced. 

After breakfast, Thomas sent Peter, and several weeks’ worth of Molly’s cooking- home to Beverly. “There’s no point in you staying here in this cold. I’ll await the repairman, er, repair worker and call you if anything comes up. Come back at lunch and I’ll have corrected your Latin and Greek assignments.”

Peter grimaced in preparation for the new Latin and Greek he knew Thomas would assign him with the corrections. Thomas grinned cheekily. “Molly’s serving soup and sandwiches for lunch. Off you go.”

Thomas went back to the breakfast room to pour one last cup of tea before heading up to the mundane library to correct Peter’s homework. He had picked up the hot tea pot, savouring its warmth against the chill of the Folly. 

The overstuffed armchair in the mundane library had originally resided in the smoking room and had all but belonged to one of the older masters who resided at the Folly on a permanent basis. The man was all but retired, and, more often than not, could be found in that chair, smoking his pipe, and talking any young practitioner’s ear off about his days running around the Colonies for the late Queen.

He pushed the chair over to the mahogany desk nearest the windows, where the midmorning sun would give him the best light through the lace curtains that swayed in the cool air. However, not even the morning light could make Peter’s Greek legible. A pity, Thomas was quite fond of Homer and was looking forward to Peter’s interpretation. Perhaps a few more primers on letter formation, yes that could do it. Thomas made a note to dig through the introductory Greek files and make up a copy.

He was distracted by a movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned. The faint swaying of the lace curtains, caught in the movement of cool winter’s air leaking in through the window, was nearly hypnotic. As a young student at Casterbrook, he was always more interested in the world beyond the window than the studies in front of him. 

Thomas resolutely focused on the homework corrections, a river of crimson splashed over Peter’s translations, before he made to close the window. However, before he could, the front doorbell rang, and Thomas hurried down to meet the repair worker.

Two hours later, the young woman from the boiler repair company had banged at the boiler, declared it to be a hazard to humanity and that it was frankly astonishing that it hadn’t gone on to met its maker (who was most assuredly long dead) was proof that miracles do happen, and, using only her mobile phone, scheduled a time she and her team could come and replace the “monstrosity in your basement. Sir.” 

After escorting the repair worker out, Thomas trekked back up to the mundane library, carrying a somewhat warm cup of tea, a red pen, and Peter’s Latin assignment. 

Scanning through the first few lines, Thomas frowned at the text. It had been sometime since he had read Virgil and he found that he didn’t remember all the terminology quite as well as he should. 

Thomas was rather glad that Peter wasn’t present to see his governor sneaking glances at the Latin dictionary he kept hidden in a cabinet in the mundane, away from the prying eyes of his apprentices.

He hadn’t gotten much farther than halfway through the second page when the telephone rang. It stopped abruptly. Thomas took a pause, looking out the curtained windows at Russell Square. He used to spend hours watching the trees through these windows, back when he was older and found it difficult to venture beyond the Folly’s threshold. However, before he could push the curtains aside to get a better look at one particularly lovely _acer campestre_ , the curtain floated aside, as if pushed by an unseen hand. Thomas felt a chill run up his shoulder, as if an icy hand had settled there.

Suddenly, the library door opened silently, and the shadowy figure that stood just beyond the threshold beckoned. Thomas sighed and took a fortifying sip of tea before setting Peter’s homework aside. “Is it Miriam?” he asked. Molly nodded. Sparing one unsettled glance at the curtains, he went for the phone.

As soon as Peter set foot in the Folly, Thomas sent him right back out again. “I’m afraid we’ve had a call from Miriam and her team.” He said, sipping at his fourth cup of tea as Molly handed Peter a wrapped sandwich. Peter took the sandwich gratefully and set out for Belgravia nick. 

As soon as his apprentice had been ushered off in pursuit of justice and a safer London, Thomas returned to the mundane library. Closing the door behind him, he frowned at the curtains, still swaying in the draft. 

With a sigh, Thomas pulled the curtains aside to close the window, but it was already closed. He frowned, curtain still in his hand. Perhaps the window sealant was coming undone, or perhaps…

In his hand, the curtain jerked. 

With steadfast reflexes, he held tight. The lacy fabric tried to jump from his grasp again, but Thomas pulled against it. He tugged at it, and it tugged back. 

Within his grasp, he felt the fabric rippling, as if taking a shape. Before his eyes, the lace formed a hand-like shape. It felt like a person wearing a lace glove.

He tried a different method of attack: wrapping it around his hand. The fabric struggled against his grasp and he wrenched it down. With a violent rip, the curtain came loose from the curtain rod and fell into a heap on the floor. 

Thomas leapt back from the window, the _forma_ for a fireball already lined up.

But the pile of lace curtains remained unmoving.

Thomas felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle, like something- or someone- was watching him. He turned around slowly, keeping one eye on the curtains. Molly stood in the doorway, arms cross, evidently not pleased to see him strangling the curtains.

Not even trying for an excuse, he said, “What is it Molly?” 

She mimed holding a phone to her ear. Thomas frowned. He hadn’t heard it ring over the blood pounding in his ears. 

“Peter called for assistance?” He translated. 

Molly held out a note. Untangling himself from the curtains, Thomas brushed imaginary dust off his jacket before walking over and taking the note. An address near Covent Garden was written on it. “Ah. Yes, I see. They still haven’t quite let go of that, have they?” 

Molly smirked. He made to leave, but she grabbed at his sleeve. She gestured towards the curtains, laying in a defeated pile on the floor.

Thomas hesitated. “I want to say it’s nothing, a product of an overactive imagination,” he paused, then added, “Unless there’s something you can find?”

Molly nodded and let him go. 

It was well past supper went Thomas finally returned to the Folly, covered in a sticky substance he preferred not to give thought to. After changing, bathing, eating something warm and edible that Molly put in front of him, he went back to the mundane library.

He eyed the curtain covering the window warily. It was a solid print- matching the new curtains in the carriage house- something far more modern than the old fashion lace that used to adorn them.

Settling back into the overstuffed armchair in the mundane library, red pen in hand, he resigned himself to a late night of Latin.

The time slipped past and soon it was a little past eleven thirty. Finally, with a few notes on grammar exercises that focused on ablative for Peter to work on. Thomas put Peter’s corrected Latin assignment aside to give to him in the morning.

Finally setting aside the assignment, he trudged out of the library. The hallway was dark; Molly must have locked up for the night already. Thomas made sure to turn off the lights and close the door quietly. 

Even with the full moon expected that night, the past few nights had been so dark that Thomas had taken to keeping a few candles on hand in the library, Walid’s warning about over exertion ringing in his ears- especially in the winter months when he was more prone to cold. Not wanting to go back into the library, Thomas instead risked a small werelight to light the way, unwilling to turn on the hall lights for his short trip down the hall and up the stairs to his room.

Perhaps it was the late hour or the lack of heat, but usually familiar hallway- his home for near a century- felt so foreign to him. The feeling that someone or something was following him would not leave. No matter how many times he turned round, he saw nothing. 

It was after midnight when he finally got to bed. He must have fallen asleep quickly, barely turning off the light before his thoughts slipped away and he felt no more. 

But he dreamt. 

He was in his room at the Folly, a soft glow from the picture frame at his nightstand beside him. He knew it was a dream because the curtains were moving. It had been nearly dawn, or so he thought, and a dim sunlight seeped in through the waving fabric. Or perhaps it was still night, and the light of the moon shines in…

“’It is not yet near day.’” He heard, whispered from the curtains.

What a strange dream, he thought. Then he felt the rush of cold air. 

While he often dreamt of the cold, there is a certain quality of real air that one’s dreaming mind can’t quite grasp. It’s the way your skin puckers, the thousands of tiny goose bumps that form, that little shiver that runs through your whole body, that is never captured in dreams, only in reality. 

Thomas sat up; his eyes locked on the curtains as they swayed from side to side. “Who are you?” he whispered, not sure if he was more afraid of hearing an answer or not hearing one at all. “Is- is it you?” 

The curtains slowed in their movements, pressing against the outline of a man. It had been nearly 70 years since he had seen that man, but his silhouette was one Thomas would never forget. “’It is the nightingale, and not the lark.’” The voice whispered.

 _“David_.” Thomas swore he could hear the figure smiling.

The silhouette stepped through the curtains, solidifying into a ghostly apparition of the man he knew and loved as David Mellenby. He wore his cream jumper; the one Thomas’s sister had made when David had come to stay for Christmas after his mum had passed. The one he had been buried in.

“Hello Thomas. I’m glad you can finally see me.” The apparition… _David_ looked at him with such a fond expression that Thomas nearly wept.

David stepped closer, reaching out towards him, but Thomas stayed back, willing himself to stay in bed and not reach out. “You’re dead, Davey.” He said sharply, almost frantically. “You’re dead. You shouldn’t be here, you should have moved on, or,” he couldn’t catch his breath. “David’s gone, he’s dead, you can’t _be_ here, you _can’t_.” He squeezed his eyes shut, ignoring the apparition that wore the face of his- of David. “I’m dreaming. I must be dreaming again. You weren’t here last night, you aren’t here now, there’s nothing here but _me_ and my _godforsaken memories.”_

A hand touched his shoulder. “Thomas. _Breath_ , love.”

He took a few shaky breaths, in and out. In and out. The world narrowed to the drawing in of breath, and the slow, stuttered exhale. And to the weight of the hand on his shoulder. 

Through his thin nightshirt, he could feel the callouses on that hand. The little writing bump on his middle finger, the smooth tips of his first finger- where he’s burned off the fingerprint on a hot plate when they were sixteen- the uneven feel of his last two fingers, broken during Arnhem. Thomas had reset them himself, after their medic had been killed. They had never healed quite right.

Thomas reached out his hand, untangling it from under the covers. He let it touch the hand that rested on his shoulder. That hand- that familiar hand- closed around his. 

It was then Thomas realized he really and truly wasn’t sleeping. “It’s _you_.” He whispered, unable to say more.

David’s other hand came up to caress his hair. Thomas leaned into the touch, letting his eyes fall shut. “It’s me.” 

The bed dipped beside him and he felt the warm weight of David beside him, leaning into him. Really, that man had no concept of personal space. Thomas couldn’t find it in himself to care, rather the opposite. He swung his feet out from the under the covers, trying to press as much of his body as he could against him. 

David held him close, tucking Thomas’s head under his chin. “I missed you,” Thomas mumbled into his throat. 

He had forgotten what it felt like, to be held in his lover’s embrace. That warm, safe feeling of home. 

“How,” he pulled back from David, enough to look him in the eye, but not willing to leave his embrace, “how are you here?” He shook his head, “Ghosts can’t exist in the Folly.” Something their masters had drilled into their heads many times. The wards kept them out, just as they kept out so many other things.

“They can if they died here.” David said, not looking him in the eye. His form flickered for a moment, a bit of blood trickled down the side of his head, then it was gone.

Thomas reached out to touch the spot on his temple, hand trembling. He felt only smooth, unblemished skin. “Then why manifest now?”

David shrugged. “I’ve tried to figure it out. The best I’ve got is that the moon has drawn me in. I- I was almost solid last night.”

“It was you, then? Last night, the anniversary of…”

“Ettersberg.” He spoke the name softly, but did not shy away from it, “Yes. I thought…”

“Yes?”

“…I thought you had forgotten. I wasn’t sure you were fully awake.” David looked saddened but resigned.

“I could never forget you.”

His smile brightened. Thomas’s chest felt like a cavern, like someone had hollowed out his insides and replaced it with a dull ache that burned at his heart.

‘There’s something about that photograph,” David nodded at the picture frame on Thomas’s bedside. “My current hypothesis is that your young apprentice accidentally linked a bit of my spirit with the it.” 

He brightened, like he always did when he was discussing some new theory that had caught his eye. “She wanted to imbue it with my _signare_ I think. I felt her messing around with different types of stones and plastics in my lab. She’s a bright girl, you ought to let her look through my notes.” 

Thomas frowned. One overly curious apprentice was bad enough. If he could grow grey hair again, Abigail would certainly drive him to it. “I don’t like the thought of her- or anyone- running around your lab unsupervised.”

“There’s nothing dangerous down there, not anymore.” David said, shortly. He looked away, “Sorry.” He murmured. “I didn’t mean to speak so harshly.”

Thomas touched the back of his neck lightly, running his fingers along the nape of his neck. “It’s alright Davey.” He leaned in, pressing his head into David’s shoulder. David let his head fall against Thomas’s. 

In his arms, Thomas felt David’s deep breath, a heavy sigh of years of regret. “They won’t make the same mistakes I did.” He said, finally. 

His breath tickled Thomas’s head.

Thomas pulled his head away, looking right at David.

“Why are you here?” He asked.

David wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“I…” he paused. “I can’t move on.” He admitted.

“What?” 

David glanced over at the window, staring into the distance. “For the most part, I haven’t been aware of myself for quite time. When your apprentice tried to draw out my _signare_ , she must have grabbed hold of enough of my consciousness for me to resurface, as it were. I was able to partially manifest last night because the moon was unusually bright, and tonight...”

His eyes were drawn back to the window, where the beams from the full moon shone into the room.

“Tonight, I have enough strength to be here, with you.” 

“And tomorrow?” Thomas asked, breaking their rule of never talking about the future. The ones who talked about the future- who talked about their sweetheart or their kid brother back home, the ones with the best reasons to live, those were the ones who didn’t make it back.

“Tomorrow I move on.”

Thomas hid his face in David’s shoulder, pulling him into an embrace. “Then tonight you stay here.” 

They curled up together, side by side, talking about little things, about Thomas’s apprentices, about the current state of the demimonde, about the technical and social marvels of the new century.

They stayed there until the lark began to sing, and the moonbeams faded.

David tried to pull away from him then, lifting his head from the pillow and drawing away from Thomas’s embrace. “Thomas,” he said, trying to disentangle himself from Thomas’s arms. “Thomas, love, I have to go.”

“Can’t you stay a little longer?” he mumbled, his eyes feeling heavy, but unwilling to close them as he stared into the face of his beloved. David smiled a soft, sad smile. “You know I can’t, love.” 

Thomas reached out and grasped his hand. They felt less solid, less real. They felt like a ghost. 

“Stay. Please.” 

David sighed. “Love…”

“Just until you’re gone. I don’t…” Thomas fought back the heavy feeling in his throat. He fought back the sting and the burn, willing himself not to let the tears fall. “I don’t want you to be alone this time.” His voice was almost steady.

Thomas watched David’s mouth tremble. He pulled himself upright, pushing back the covers enough so he could lean over and press a gentle kiss to David’s cheek. 

David closed his eyes and leaned into his embrace.

“Alright.” He whispered. “I’ll stay.”


End file.
